


nocturne

by bespokenboy



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Smut, porn with a little too much plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-15
Updated: 2016-07-15
Packaged: 2018-07-24 06:44:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7498164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bespokenboy/pseuds/bespokenboy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The night before his first international piano competition, Wonwoo discovers that he's staying in the same hotel as his rival, Wen Junhui.</p>
            </blockquote>





	nocturne

Maybe it’s the insomnia dulling his senses or the unearthly music drifting down the hallway, but wandering the hotel lobby at midnight has a distinctly surreal edge to it. Wonwoo could be awake, or he could just as easily be sleepwalking as he follows the faint, familiar melody of Liszt’s Hungarian Rhapsody #2 to the parlor where someone is playing the piano.

 

Wonwoo grips the doorknob, feeling a dreamlike clumsiness in his fingers. He twists and pushes the door open. Suddenly the muted sounds from inside the parlor are flooding his ears, cascading chords at full volume.

 

He recognizes the shoulders of the man at the piano right away. Wen Junhui. His greatest opponent, even though Junhui probably doesn’t recognize Wonwoo as competition. After all, Junhui is a world-renowned concert pianist, and Wonwoo teaches private lessons to middle schoolers at a neighborhood music store.

 

With his back to turned to the door, Junhui doesn’t even notice that Wonwoo is there. His large, but graceful hands dance across the ivory keys of the parlor room piano, and Wonwoo suddenly understands why they call Junhui a virtuoso.

 

Junhui exerts his entire weight onto his fingertips, his body lifting completely from the bench. He wields a kind of physical power that Wonwoo wouldn’t dare use on a delicate instrument like a piano. The rumors that Junhui breaks pianos during his concerts suddenly seem less like hyperbole and more like fact.

 

“Can I help you?” Junhui asks quietly without turning around.

 

The music is still ringing so loudly in Wonwoo’s ears that he hardly even notices that Junhui has stopped playing.

 

When Wonwoo doesn’t answer, his words caught somewhere in his throat, Junhui swings his long legs around to face Wonwoo, his hands folding daintily in his lap. He leans forward, letting his forearms rest on his spread thighs, his hands still clasped between his knees. Junhui’s eyebrows arch expectantly.

 

“I–I um. How did you know I was here?” Wonwoo finally manages to stammer out. “Could you hear me?”

 

The mild irritation in Junhui’s face softens into amusement as he grasps the situation.

 

“No, I couldn’t hear you. But the reverberation in the room changed when you opened the door,” he explains.

 

“Come in, and close the door behind you,” Junhui says warmly, gesturing for Wonwoo to come closer. His cheeks round out as his mouth stretches in beguiling smile that Wonwoo was not prepared for. He was told that Junhui would have an intimidating presence. Nobody warned Wonwoo that Junhui would be this  _ disarming _ in person.

 

Wonwoo stands a few feet away from Junhui, simultaneously trying to gather his thoughts in the presence of Junhui while grasping for an excuse to why he was lurking around the hotel so late at night.

 

“Closer, closer,” Junhui says, beckoning for Wonwoo with a careless wave of his hand.

 

Shyly, Wonwoo inches closer until he’s standing right in front of Junhui. Even though he’s the one sitting and Wonwoo’s the one standing, Junhui still manages to regard Wonwoo from a dominant position, watching him with sharp, but sensuous eyes.

 

Wonwoo still hasn’t said another word, but Junhui says with a knowing grin, “I know who you are. You're….a  _ fan _ .”

 

Wonwoo’s eyes go wide, and he lets out an involuntary snicker of disbelief. “No, I'm really not,” he insists.

 

Junhui takes it as bashfulness on Wonwoo’s part, and murmurs, “No need to be ashamed. I love my fans. I treat them well.”

 

Again, Wonwoo is acutely aware of just how different he and Junhui are, not just as musicians, but as people. Wonwoo would never go around assuming that any approaching stranger was a fan.

 

Junhui is arguably cocky, but he has a reason to be. He's a rockstar in the world of classical music, inspiring a fervor that consumes his audience. It fits his charismatic style of playing piano, all brilliant technique and flashy showmanship.

 

Wonwoo, on the other hand, was always taught that true strength comes from being gentle, and that there is power in being soft. Like the delicate, intimate style of Chopin enchanting a generation stupefied by Liszt’s stormy virtuosity.

 

“You’re practicing the night before the piano competition finals?” Wonwoo asks, finally finding his voice.

 

Junhui looks surprised by Wonwoo’s question. “I thought the venue wasn’t open to the public,” he says. “How did you know the finals were taking place tomorrow?”

 

“I’m not a fan,” Wonwoo repeats, more firmly this time. “I’m in the competition.”

 

It isn’t the first time Wonwoo has entered a piano competition like this one, but it’s the first time he’s made it past the first round. After a video audition and another audition in person at a nearly empty auditorium, Wonwoo finally has the chance to perform in a concert hall packed with critics and other musicians.

 

Junhui’s expression shifts from puzzlement to delight. “Just because you’re my rival doesn’t mean you can’t also be my fan,” he says.

 

He reaches out for Wonwoo, his fingertips brushing against his thigh and leaving a trail of electricity crackling against his skin. Wonwoo almost flinches away, but then he hears Junhui say, “I know who you are now.”

 

Wonwoo goes still, letting Junhui’s fingers find purchase on the skin-tight fabric of his pants. He grips his thigh firmly, but affectionately. Wonwoo doesn’t recoil.

 

“You’re Jeon Wonwoo,” Junhui says with the smugness of a man who knows he’s equipped with the correct answer. “I watched your audition. You played Chopin.”

 

Just the miracle of hearing his name on Junhui’s lips reminds Wonwoo that he might be a little (or more accurately,  _ a lot _ ) starstruck by the man sitting before him. The man who’s currently holding onto Wonwoo’s thigh with a familiar, but teasing grip. The longer Junhui’s touch lingers in such close proximity to Wonwoo’s groin, the more strained the fabric of Wonwoo’s pants feel against his flesh.

 

“I did,” Wonwoo says, just barely remembering how to breathe.

 

“It was interesting,” Junhui muses, and Wonwoo is suddenly dubious of his tone.

 

“Interesting how?”

 

“Most people don’t play Chopin when they want to win a competition like this.”

 

Wonwoo bristles at Junhui’s backhandedness, but Junhui doesn’t seem to be consciously trying to incite his ire. It’s just the unintentionally blunt way of speaking that comes with not needing to impress anyone. It irritates Wonwoo even more when it dawns upon him that he wants to impress Junhui.

 

“I’m playing Rachmaninov in the finals,” Wonwoo says shortly, his voice betraying some of his bitterness.

 

“Oh, please don’t take that the wrong way,” Junhui says quickly. “It was refreshing to hear Chopin, I should say. I liked it.”

 

Those round, cutely boyish cheeks appear again. Wonwoo isn’t prepared for it this time, either.

 

“What are you performing tomorrow?” Wonwoo asks, his face burning involuntarily at Junhui’s careless compliment.

 

“Chopin,” Junhui says. His eyes are playful, but earnest.

 

“But I thought you just said—”

 

“Most people are afraid of showing so much vulnerability and restraint for something like this.” Junhui places his other hand on Wonwoo’s other thigh, and Wonwoo feels like he’s burning all over, every muscle in his body squeezing tight. “It takes a lot of bravery to be intimate, and  _ soft _ .”

 

With the last couple of words, Junhui slides his palms up Wonwoo’s thighs all the way to his waist, and Wonwoo suddenly finds himself in Junhui’s lap, straddling his hips.

 

Their faces, and lips, are dangerously close now, so close that Wonwoo can almost taste the cool mint on Junhui’s breath.

 

“While we’re both here, why don’t we make some music?” Junhui suggests, his voice softer and his eyes darker than before.

 

“Won’t it be too loud?” Wonwoo asks, though he’s certain that nothing in the world could be louder than the sound of his heart hammering in his chest right now.

 

“I’ve been playing here by myself all night. Let’s be loud together.”

 

A strangled, scandalized noise rises in Wonwoo’s throat, which Junhui takes as consent.

 

“Alright then. Do you know any pieces for four hands?” Junhui asks.

 

“W-what do you mean?”

 

“Piano duets,” Junhui says impatiently. “Let’s play a song together.”

 

“Oh,” Wonwoo says, his gut twisting in embarrassment when he realizes what Junhui has been alluding to this whole time. “Um,  _ Jeux d’enfants _ ?”

 

It’s the last piece that he studied under his high school piano teacher, who told Wonwoo afterwards there was nothing he could teach him anymore.

 

“Ah, Bizet. Lovely,” Junhui says, smiling warmly. “Which part do you know? Top or bottom? I can do either.”

 

“I’m more comfortable with bottom.”

 

“Then I’ll be the top,” Junhui decides. He snaps at an even, steady tempo to set the beat. “This speed?”

 

“Faster,” Wonwoo says.

 

“I was hoping you would say that,” Junhui grins.

 

They leave a few polite inches of distance between them on the bench when they begin playing the duet, fingers gliding across black and white keys on their respective sides of the piano. But as the music grows more complex, Wonwoo and Junhui are forced to invade each other’s spaces, brushing up against each other as they cross hands and wrists.

 

It’s like a dance as their hands skitter up and down the keyboard, their skin coming into close enough contact to provoke, but never to satisfy. Eventually, as they reach the end of a movement, Junhui reaches his hand over Wonwoo’s wrist, and his fingers come down not on the keyboard, but onto Wonwoo’s hand, holding it still.

 

Wonwoo looks at him in surprise. “What’s wrong?” he asks.

 

“Let’s stop now,” Junhui says, his voice sounding strained.

 

“But we didn’t finish the movement!”

 

“It’s getting late,” Junhui insists, and again, there’s an unmistakable strangeness in his voice. “We can finish another time, when it’s not night.”

 

“What’s wrong with the night?”

 

“Everything feels a little different at night, wouldn’t you agree? Everything feels a little scarier, and a little more possible. Or maybe it’s just that I’m not thinking straight….” Junhui’s little ramble trails off, sounding painfully uncertain.

 

“When can we play again?” Wonwoo asks. Something like disappointment, or regret, is starting to clutch at his stomach.

 

“Whenever you want,” Junhui answers easily, seeming to regain his confidence. “It would be my honor to share a stage with you.”

 

With his usual boldness, Junhui takes Wonwoo’s hand and brings it close to his face. He brushes his lips against Wonwoo’s knuckles without breaking eye contact.

 

When Junhui lets go of his hand, Wonwoo just holds on more tightly to Junhui’s fingers, refusing to let him leave so easily.

 

“I don’t know about you,” Wonwoo says slowly, feeling a sudden surge of bravery rising in him. “But I don’t want this night to end so soon.”

  
  
  
  


“When you said that you were more comfortable with the bottom,” Junhui murmurs, pinning Wonwoo against his closed door by the wrists, “did you mean that as a blanket statement?”

 

“I meant for that piece in particular,” Wonwoo says. It’s a feat in itself that he can even form a coherent sentence at this point with Junhui’s thigh pressing into his groin.

 

“What about now? Do you still want to be on the bottom?” Junhui asks, leaving no room for subtext or misunderstanding.

 

“Okay. This time,” Wonwoo says.

 

He quickly loses all capacity for higher order thinking when Junhui slips his hands up the back of Wonwoo’s shirt and kisses him. It’s not a polite kiss, it’s open mouthed with a searching tongue, a kiss that makes Wonwoo’s toes curl. Junhui drags his fingernails lightly across Wonwoo’s back, lacing the pleasure with the impossibly exquisite suggestion of pain.

 

“I, uh, wow,” Wonwoo breathes jaggedly, feeling dizzy as Junhui steps away to unfasten the top button of his own shirt. It’s the most coherent thing Wonwoo can manage when his skin is buzzing at every point of contact, making his whole body feel like it’s about to come undone.

 

“I change my mind,” Junhui says abruptly, stopping in the middle of unclasping another button. He sits down on his bed, leaning back comfortably on his elbows. “I want you to undress me.”

 

In truth, Junhui just wants to watch Wonwoo fumble with his buttons, to watch his cheeks flush a delicious pink when Wonwoo’s graceful fingers turn clumsy with nerves and haste. But it only makes Junhui grow more impatient with desire as Wonwoo gropes helplessly at the complicated fastenings. His touches are unintentionally provocative, driving Junhui crazy until he’s almost aching with need.

 

“Finally,” Junhui just about growls when his shirt finally falls free from his skin. He tosses it aside and pushes Wonwoo onto the mattress, undressing him in a fraction of the time Wonwoo took.

 

There are already light pink streaks clawed across Wonwoo’s back, which Junhui leaves soft, contrite kisses against, as though in apology. But there is nothing apologetic in the way that Junhui rolls his hips against Wonwoo, grinding their clothed erections against each other in a fluid motion. If Junhui wasn’t a concert pianist, he could just as easily have been a dancer in a previous life.

 

Wonwoo barely notices Junhui’s fingers unfastening the fly of his jeans until he feels a sudden, tight grip around his erection. Wonwoo shudders and moans involuntarily into Junhui’s mouth as Junhui begins to pump his fist slowly, from base to tip.

 

“Good boy,” Junhui whispers against his lips, and it’s his words, more than his actions, that unravel Wonwoo.

 

He’s too far gone to notice or care about the embarrassing, breathy sounds that Junhui pulls out of him as Wonwoo writhes under his touch—noises that are music to Junhui’s ears. Just when he’s about to reach his climax, Junhui stops and pulls away, leaving Wonwoo shaking and struggling for breath, desperate for contact.

 

Somehow, Junhui is still level-headed, a fact that Wonwoo registers, peripherally, as mildly annoying.

 

“You know what, I don’t think this is a great idea,” Junhui says, coming to his senses now of all times with an oddly placed sense of concern.

 

“Fuck you,” Wonwoo grunts, wrapping his legs around Junhui’s back. He digs his heels into Junhui’s bare skin to bring him in closer.   

 

Junhui laughs softly and cradles Wonwoo’s cheek. “You’ll be sitting on a piano bench tomorrow. It could be painful if you didn’t bring a cushion.”

 

“Fuck that,” Wonwoo says, articulating his feverish thoughts less through his words and more through the way he grabs Junhui by the shoulders to rut up against him impatiently.

 

“Fuck that indeed,” Junhui agrees under his breath with faint amusement. “Well, you asked for it.”

 

Using fingers cold and slippery with lubricant, Junhui stretches Wonwoo open with long, probing strokes, kissing him to distract him from the burn.

 

“That feels so good,” Wonwoo groans when Junhui finally manages to fit three fingers inside, up to the last knuckles.

 

“I’ve been told I’m good with my hands,” Junhui says.

 

When he’s certain that Wonwoo is ready, and Wonwoo is more than certain he’s ready, Junhui finally enters him, strangely hesitant despite his previous boldness. Wonwoo sucks on Junhui’s lower lip as Junhui thrusts into him evenly at first, and then with more urgent snaps of his hips. He does even this with artistic grace, like a soloist building momentum at the crux of a cadenza.

 

A sharp, coppery taste materializes onto Wonwoo’s tongue, and he realizes that he’s bitten through the fragile skin protecting Junhui’s lip. When Junhui pulls away to look at Wonwoo with his penetrating, smoldering gaze, his bottom lip is red and swollen, and Wonwoo decides that he likes how it looks that way.

 

“No matter what happens tomorrow,” Junhui says raggedly, all composure gone, “you’re a fucking champion, you know?”

 

“Thanks. That means a lot,” Wonwoo pants, but he’s only being half sarcastic.

 

At this point, tomorrow’s competition weighs nothing in his mind. No matter what happens, there will always be more opportunities in the future to rise slowly, patiently to stardom—to find that bit of glory and recognition he’s always been chasing. All he can do now is to chase it fearlessly.

  
With Wonwoo holding onto Junhui’s shoulders, their duet reaches a finale. Bursts of light like camera flashes explode in Wonwoo’s vision, and an indistinct, but deafening noise roars in his ears. It almost sounds like applause.


End file.
